wasn’t the only one.
“There’s … there’s a name on it,” I told him.
“Yes, that’s not uncommon,” he said, hefting the ring in one hand. “That would be the name of the slave’s owner—and the slave too, of course.”
My head was beginning to return to normal. “I don’t understand.”
“Normally a slave was given the owner’s name. That’s the reason, er, blacks in the U.S. and Canada usually have Anglo surnames. Let’s see what this says.”
He held the ring closer to his face and turned it until he found the letters. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Do you know it?”
“Pierpoint? I surely do. Zack, you’ve made an important discovery. Come with me.”
PART TWO
The True Story of
Richard Pierpoint
alias
Richard Parepoint
alias
Captain Dick
alias
Black Dick
alias
PAWPINE
By Zachariah Lane
,
great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson of African slaves
Dear Ms. Song,
Here is my project. I’m sorry it’s so long, and it’s late, long past the due date, but I got very involved in it and I guess I got carried away. I didn’t want to leave anything out. I’m not making excuses, but I read two whole books on the “middle passage” alone, not to mention a book on each of the wars. And I spent a zillion hours (well, almost) poring over archival documents at the museum (Mr. Knox was a big help), searching the title to our property at the land registry office and scanning the Internet for info on a man most people have never heard of.
You have seen the Revolutionary War British document box, the two Butler’s Ranger shoulder straps, the nugget and the slave’s neck iron. This project tells the tale of the man who owned them.
I know a history paper is supposed to be objective, but I decided to write this as a story because the facts are only the beginning, and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t stay neutral. I hope I don’t fail because of that, but if I do, it’s okay.
Thanks for letting me try this. Even if I fail, it was worth it.
P.S. Jen helped me type this. I hope that’s legal.
P.P.S. I forgot the footnotes, but it’s too late now.
Your student,
It’s as if the events of his life had been written on cards and tossed into the wind. I’ve gathered the ones I could and tried to arrange them into some kind of order. A lot have been lost. There are many gaps, more questions than answers.
He was born in 1744 in Bondu, Senegambia, West Africa, a river-laced land of steaming marshes and grassy plains. He could have been a Wolof or Mandinke, but was probably a Fulani, the dominant tribe of Bondu State. He was likely Moslem and may have known how to read and write. Senegambians grew cotton, tobacco, maize (corn) and rice; they were cunning traders and expert cattle ranchers. To imagine him as an ignorant jungle savage is as logical assuggesting the royal family of England at the time wore smelly animal skins and lived in caves.
Land was plentiful but labourers were not, so war and slavery were bitter facts of life. Tribe raided tribe, carried off the human spoils and put them to work planting crops or tending cattle. The European slavers who, during the eighteenth century transported sixty per cent of West Africa’s population across the Atlantic, did not invent slavery. They bought their slaves from Africans.
When he was the age of the average grade-eleven student he was captured in one of those conflicts. Hands bound behind his back, roped by the neck to other men, women and children, he was marched to the broad Gambia River and boated downstream to James Fort, an island fortress near the ocean, and sold to Europeans. Before he was driven aboard the ship that lay at anchor in the estuary, he was grappled to the ground, tallow was smeared on his stomach then covered with oiled paper, and, with an iron heated in a fire until it glowed red, he was branded. He belonged to the Royal African Company. He was cargo.
The “middle passage,” the hellish ocean journey
“There’s … there’s a name on it,” I told him.
“Yes, that’s not uncommon,” he said, hefting the ring in one hand. “That would be the name of the slave’s owner—and the slave too, of course.”
My head was beginning to return to normal. “I don’t understand.”
“Normally a slave was given the owner’s name. That’s the reason, er, blacks in the U.S. and Canada usually have Anglo surnames. Let’s see what this says.”
He held the ring closer to his face and turned it until he found the letters. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Do you know it?”
“Pierpoint? I surely do. Zack, you’ve made an important discovery. Come with me.”
PART TWO
The True Story of
Richard Pierpoint
alias
Richard Parepoint
alias
Captain Dick
alias
Black Dick
alias
PAWPINE
By Zachariah Lane
,
great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson of African slaves
Dear Ms. Song,
Here is my project. I’m sorry it’s so long, and it’s late, long past the due date, but I got very involved in it and I guess I got carried away. I didn’t want to leave anything out. I’m not making excuses, but I read two whole books on the “middle passage” alone, not to mention a book on each of the wars. And I spent a zillion hours (well, almost) poring over archival documents at the museum (Mr. Knox was a big help), searching the title to our property at the land registry office and scanning the Internet for info on a man most people have never heard of.
You have seen the Revolutionary War British document box, the two Butler’s Ranger shoulder straps, the nugget and the slave’s neck iron. This project tells the tale of the man who owned them.
I know a history paper is supposed to be objective, but I decided to write this as a story because the facts are only the beginning, and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t stay neutral. I hope I don’t fail because of that, but if I do, it’s okay.
Thanks for letting me try this. Even if I fail, it was worth it.
P.S. Jen helped me type this. I hope that’s legal.
P.P.S. I forgot the footnotes, but it’s too late now.
Your student,
It’s as if the events of his life had been written on cards and tossed into the wind. I’ve gathered the ones I could and tried to arrange them into some kind of order. A lot have been lost. There are many gaps, more questions than answers.
He was born in 1744 in Bondu, Senegambia, West Africa, a river-laced land of steaming marshes and grassy plains. He could have been a Wolof or Mandinke, but was probably a Fulani, the dominant tribe of Bondu State. He was likely Moslem and may have known how to read and write. Senegambians grew cotton, tobacco, maize (corn) and rice; they were cunning traders and expert cattle ranchers. To imagine him as an ignorant jungle savage is as logical assuggesting the royal family of England at the time wore smelly animal skins and lived in caves.
Land was plentiful but labourers were not, so war and slavery were bitter facts of life. Tribe raided tribe, carried off the human spoils and put them to work planting crops or tending cattle. The European slavers who, during the eighteenth century transported sixty per cent of West Africa’s population across the Atlantic, did not invent slavery. They bought their slaves from Africans.
When he was the age of the average grade-eleven student he was captured in one of those conflicts. Hands bound behind his back, roped by the neck to other men, women and children, he was marched to the broad Gambia River and boated downstream to James Fort, an island fortress near the ocean, and sold to Europeans. Before he was driven aboard the ship that lay at anchor in the estuary, he was grappled to the ground, tallow was smeared on his stomach then covered with oiled paper, and, with an iron heated in a fire until it glowed red, he was branded. He belonged to the Royal African Company. He was cargo.
The “middle passage,” the hellish ocean journey
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